


Live and Live Again

by prattery



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur Pendragon Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, M/M, So does Merlin actually, Temporary Character Death, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prattery/pseuds/prattery
Summary: “You were gone,” Arthur says wretchedly. “How can you—? You were dead. I watched you die. Merlin—?”“Must’ve just passed out,”“No,” Arthur insists. “No!” he repeats, louder. Merlin flinches, but Arthur carries on. “You didn’t pass out. I held you. You weren’t breathing, I know you weren’t—”“I must have,” Merlin chokes out, incredulous. “Don’t be absurd, I couldn’t have been dead.”---Or: Merlin and Arthur find out about Merlin's immortality.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 354





	1. Chapter 1

They were on a hunt when they were ambushed. It’s only the two of them, this time. They’re not too far from Camelot—only half a day’s ride away—so extra protection seems gratuitous. This hunt was Merlin’s idea, for once, and much like Merlin’s other ideas, things were always bound to go wrong.

It works in their favour that the bandits are relatively small in number, as far as bandit groups go, and that their attack is messy and uncoordinated. _Amateurs,_ Arthur thinks, fighting two at once while Merlin is undoubtedly cowering behind a tree or something equally cowardly. _They must be rather new at this ambushing thing._

But what they lack in skills, they compensate in number. No matter how skilled Arthur is—and he is the _best skilled_ in all the lands, thank you very much—they are still outnumbered seven-to-one. He can’t even count Merlin, considering how useless Merlin is with a sword. His idea of sword-fighting consists entirely of swinging it about until the blade hits something by accident.

It takes some time, but Arthur dispatches the bandits with such overwhelming ease that he’s almost embarrassed for them. Before too long, it’s just him standing there, the bandits either strewn carelessly around him or bolting in fear of him. Well, he _assumes_ they weren’t bolting in fear of Merlin. Arthur cleans his sword with grim satisfaction, and it wasn’t long before Merlin is by his side again. “That wasn’t too bad, was it, Merlin?” He claps Merlin’s back in easy camaraderie, grinning. “Not that you did anything to help.”

“That one was mine, actually,” Merlin points at one of the unconscious bandits lying face down on the forest floor, the back of their head matted with blood. “That one, too.”

“Well done, Merlin,” Arthur raises his eyebrow in surprise, “perhaps those lessons I’ve been giving you _have_ been useful, after all.”

“Lessons,” Merlin snorts. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call them. You just want an excuse to hit me with your sword.”

“You’re meant to block them, Merlin,” Arthur grins cheerfully, ruffling Merlin’s hair as Merlin tries to bat his hand away, “but something must’ve gone through your thick skull. Seems like you’re not so completely useless with a sword now.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Merlin grouses, ever the ungrateful fool. How many servants does _he_ know is personally trained by the King of Camelot? Said fool is staring down at one of the bandits that he felled, not looking half as pleased as he ought to be. The bandit still had a hand loosely on his crossbow—if anything, surely it would be _good_ if he was dead? Merlin clearly didn’t think so, if the way he was worrying at his lips was any indication. “He’s probably just unconscious, isn’t he?”

It certainly doesn’t look that way, but Arthur nods in sympathy, if only to banish the stupid worry on Merlin’s stupid face. A retort is on his lips before Merlin shoves him aside in an unexpected burst of strength, knocking him flat to the ground with a loud curse. Arthur was about to shout at him when he hears the noise, and his heart seizes with dread.

It happens so fast. He was _just_ becoming acquainted with the mud under his cheek and the next thing he hears is a wet squelching noise, a thud of an arrow hitting its mark. Merlin lets out a soft gasp, and Arthur scrambles to stand back up with dizzying speed.

A cursory check that the bandit is dead— _properly_ dead this time, considering that his eyes are still open—having used the last of his energy to mount his revenge.

“You idiot!” Arthur shouts, furious and scared, even if it’s the last thing he’d ever admit, “what on earth did you do that for?”

“Oh, thank you for saving my life, Merlin,” Merlin grits out, hand clutching at his chest, “you know, if you were quick enough to duck, then I wouldn’t need to—ow—“

All the flippancy bleeds out of him in an instant, because Merlin has an arrow sticking out his chest, his blood rapidly staining his tunic dark.

“Don’t—don’t pull it out,” Merlin tells him faintly when Arthur approaches him. “‘ll bleed out too quickly. Just—break it off—“

Arthur forces his hand to still before snapping most of the arrow shaft clean off in one swift movement, leaving the arrowhead buried in Merlin’s chest. Despite his attempt to move swiftly and steadily, Merlin lets out a pained whimper.

“We need to get you back to Camelot,” Arthur decides. Merlin wouldn’t last two days here, not with an injury like that. “Now. Just need to find the horses, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

Merlin only grunts in response, clearly unconvinced, and Arthur doesn’t blame him.

* * *

A careful comb of their immediate vicinity confirms that the bandits who escaped did so with their horses and half their supplies, not to mention Arthur’s game. _Bastards_. He was having such a good day, too.

Arthur spends the rest of the day split between tending to Merlin’s wound and convincing himself that he wasn’t going to lose Merlin. It’s not really something he ever had to truly worry about before—after all, Merlin seems to have more luck than the whole of Camelot combined. He bounces back, he always does, and he bloody well isn’t going to stop now.

“Remind me never to suggest a hunt again,” Merlin wheezes, gritting his teeth. “Ever.”

“Well, why did you?” Arthur replies curiously, “I’ve never known you to be so keen on—what is it you call it? Killing innocent, _cute_ animals.”

“No rabbit was ever going to do you any harm,” Merlin grumbles. “And anyway, you needed it,” he added simply. “It was all getting to you. The whole king thing.”

Despite his attempt, Arthur doesn’t quite manage to suppress his smile. “And I became more horrible to you than usual?”

“You said it,” Merlin replies, grinning even with the pain, “not me.”

* * *

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Arthur accuses, frowning at the grim-looking half-ground poultice that he made by following Merlin’s abysmal instructions. Arthur has never met someone so naturally awful at giving directions, it made him wish he paid attention to Gaius’ lectures when he was younger. _It’s not enough of a paste,_ Merlin had whined, but does _he_ know how difficult it is to grind herbs at all without proper equipment? He ought to be pleased that it’s something of a paste at all. “You are _cherishing_ this opportunity to order me around.”

“Gotta make the most of it, Sire,” Merlin grins, insolent and all teeth. “Don’t know when else I’ll have the chance.”

Arthur pretends not to understand what Merlin is insinuating, instead choosing to wash around Merlin’s wound with water from his skin. There is no purpose in dwelling on things that will not happen. Arthur applies the poultice around the still-buried arrowhead with a light touch, concentrating as to not to let his hands shake. Merlin hisses, clenching his eyes shut, involuntary tears leaking from the corners.

“Must be rather serious if you’re not even making comments about me crying,” Merlin grits out when Arthur fails to make a single comment. His tone is light. “You wouldn’t normally pass an opportunity like that.”

Arthur doesn’t deign him with a response, because nothing about this situation is normal. He gets on with his work instead, ripping up the hem of Merlin’s tunic to make a makeshift dressing, despite Merlin’s whining.“I only have two shirts, you git, why can’t you just rip up yours when you have so many—“

“I’ll give you coins to buy more later,” Arthur promises absentmindedly, _I’ll give you enough coins to buy the whole market, and the whole town besides, when we get back to Camelot._

With the dressing done, Arthur slings Merlin’s arm around his shoulders and pulls him up, bearing half of his weight as they begin their coordinated hobble back in the general direction of Camelot. It’s not fifty steps when Merlin speaks again.

“I’m only slowing you down,” Merlin gasps out, his breathing harsh.

“Well, that's hardly anything new, is it,” Arthur grunts.

“Arthur,” Merlin tries again, his tone serious. “Arthur. You must leave me.”

Arthur has to pause to do a double take. What does Merlin take Arthur for? “You can’t really be that stupid,”

“Go back to Camelot. Get help. You can come back for me later.”

 _If there’s even any you to come back to,_ Arthur’s mind supplies, but he wasn’t going to voice that out loud.“Giving me orders now, Merlin?”

“They might come back and bring their friends,” Merlin points out, “I didn’t save your life so we can both die!”

“We’re not going to die,” Arthur insists with confidence he doesn’t feel. “Don’t be so dramatic, Merlin. I’ve seen men survive worse.”

Merlin huffs, staring down at the arrow sticking out his chest. “Then you should have no qualms about leaving me here.”

“No,” Arthur snaps. _I’m not leaving you behind._ “And that’s final, Merlin. So you might as well just conserve your energy and _shut up_.”

Merlin, for once in his life, obliges.

* * *

“Just a few more steps,” Arthur murmurs gently every time Merlin begins to stumble. “Come on, Merlin. One foot in front of the other, there you go.”

“I know how to walk,” Merlin grumbles back, but his voice is strained.

“That’s debatable,” Arthur shoots back without missing a beat. He has to keep Merlin conscious and talking, and surely things aren’t too bad if Merlin’s still capable of moaning at him. To be fair, when it comes to Merlin, Arthur reckons that that particular ability would be the last to go. “You know, considering how often you trip over nothing.”

Merlin huffs, evidently too exhausted. Arthur isn’t sure how long they carry on like that, with Arthur either murmuring gentle encouragement or teasing Merlin every time his steps begin to falter. It’s all the patience he never thought he would have.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps out, not a third of the way in. “Arthur, stop,”

 _You don’t tell me what to do,_ Arthur was prepared to say. Instead, he looks up to the sky. It is growing dark, and night would fall soon. Progress is much slower than he had wanted. “We’ll make camp here, and we’ll continue in the morning,” Arthur decides, depositing Merlin on the ground as gently as he can, propping him up with a conveniently placed log. “Well. _I’ll_ make camp, you just make yourself comfortable.” _And try not to die in the meantime._

It’s a testament to how dire the situation is that Merlin doesn’t even grace him with a snarky response.

“You and I both know that Camelot is too far away on foot,” Merlin points out as Arthur finally sits down next to him. His voice is barely above a raspy whisper and Arthur has to strain to hear him. He’s never known Merlin to sound so weak and quiet, and it sends a chill down his spine.

“They’ll send someone on horses,” Arthur maintains, not looking up from where he is changing Merlin’s dressing. He has to force out the words past the tightness in his throat. They will be fine, they have to be. They have faced worse—a dragon, just to mention one—and came out the other side. Why should this time be different? Something always comes up, because the alternative is unthinkable. “We’ve been gone too long, they would’ve noticed by now. Gaius will be with them, and he’ll fix you right up. You’ll be back on your feet in no time, driving me mad at every turn. You just have to stay on.”

Merlin’s lips ever-so-slightly quirk up at that, indulgent. As though he knew that Arthur is lying.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur whispers, meeting Merlin’s eyes. “You’re not letting a small prick like that bring you down, are you?”

Merlin huffs, smiling wider.

Arthur doesn’t want to sleep that night, deathly terrified that if he closes his eyes he will open them to find Merlin cold and lifeless next to him. He sidles up close to Merlin, fingers resting upon Merlin’s wrist, feeling for the pulse.

“Sleep,” Arthur tells Merlin gruffly. “I’ll keep watch.”

Merlin’s sleep is fitful, and Arthur suspects that he is more unconscious than he is sleeping, but as long as he is still breathing, there is hope yet. With shaking fingers, Arthur brushes Merlin’s fringe from his forehead, and Merlin leans towards his touch. The little instinctive gesture makes Arthur’s heart swell. He smiles, and carefully doesn’t think about Merlin’s wounds and about what will happen if Merlin doesn’t make it back.

* * *

Despite his determination not to fall asleep, he must’ve nodded off at some point, the exhaustion and the worry of the day catching up to him. It’s something that he will furiously regret later, he knows. He is woken by the sound of Merlin’s ragged breathing next to him. When he turns to look, Merlin’s eyes are open and glazed over, his cheeks flushed with fever where they were white as a sheet before.

The swelling tide of pure panic is not like anything Arthur has ever experienced before. He is helpless against its onslaught—it pulls him right under.

“Tell me what you need,” Arthur pleads, so ready to jump into action. Anything that will take this away and keep Merlin with him. “More poultice? A change of dressing? Or—”

“No, just—“ Merlin breathes, and his voice is so very faint. “Will you just hold me, Arthur? Please?”

Arthur chokes back a sob, rushing to oblige. He pulls Merlin into his arms, cradling him with all the gentleness that he can muster. Desperate to give comfort any way he can, unwilling to let go. He’s never held Merlin like this—never dared to want it, either—but it feels right. Like that is where Merlin was always meant to be. Why hasn’t he done this before? Arthur pulls him tighter, lets himself cherish the feel of Merlin in his arms, not daring to think that this is his last opportunity to do so.

 _Not him,_ Arthur pleads, fervent, already half-mad with sorrow. _Please. Let him stay._

“This is new,” Merlin sighs, and Arthur can hear the slight smile in his voice. “You’re not even calling me a girl.”

It’s such an obvious opening for them to go back to their habitual bantering, instead of getting swept up in this ferocious eddy of untamed emotions. Arthur doesn’t take it. He can’t—not now.

“You can’t die, Merlin,” Arthur murmurs into Merlin’s hair. _I need you by my side._ He closes his eyes tightly against the sting of tears. He pulls away and continues to stroke Merlin’s hair. “You’re not about to pass up an opportunity to call me a prat for the rest of my life, are you?”

 _I need more time with him,_ he pleads, begging the gods to listen, _just one more chance. Please._

_I will do everything you ask of me. Just don’t take him._

Merlin looks up, and for a moment their eyes meet. The affection written on Merlin’s face is so painful to behold. “Arthur,” he breathes.

“I’m right here,” Arthur whispers, clasping Merlin’s hand, clinging to every bit of life in him. As though it will be enough to make Merlin stay. 

Merlin smiles sweetly, contentedly, and when he looks at Arthur, his eyes are soft and full of devotion.

He goes limp in Arthur’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This WIP has been sitting in my draft for ages, so I thought I might as well clean it up a bit and publish it. Don't worry, the death is temporary.  
> As usual, this work is unbeta-ed so all mistakes are mine, but please don't hesitate to point them out in the comments when you find any :)


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur doesn’t know how long he sits there, Merlin’s cooling body in his arms, but Arthur remembers vaguely calling Merlin’s name, over and over again as though Merlin would hear him and come back from wherever he had gone. He remembers shaking Merlin gently, patting his cheeks as though to wake him, silently begging him to stay with him without so many words.

He remembers feeling cold, the space in his chest filling with hollowness. It doesn't sink in. He doesn't know when it will, but when it does, he knows that it will shatter him. 

Arthur remembers letting go of Merlin’s hand. He had to pry open his clenched hand, finger by numb finger, and let Merlin’s hand slide limply to the side. He will take the body back to Camelot, where Gaius and Gwaine and all the others can give him a proper send off.

He doesn’t know what comes next. He never thought that he’d outlive Merlin.

* * *

Dawn breaks. Arthur hardly notices any of it. Everything passes in a bit of a blur, if he was being honest. It's difficult enough to focus on his breathing, let alone plan the journey back. He knows he doesn't want to walk away just yet, because if he leaves, then it will become real.

He sits close to the fire. Any closer and he would actually be in the fire, but he is trying so miserably to get some warmth back in his fingers. It has been a futile exercise thus far. It feels as though something inside him has died with Merlin, leaving behind a chill he can’t shake off.

It is so quiet, out there in the woods. It is so inconceivable that this time yesterday, he was warm and comfortable in his chambers, before Merlin slammed the doors open to wake him up with all the discretion of a blindly charging boar.

Arthur rubs his face tiredly. How can that be the last time Merlin would ever wake him?

There is suddenly a shuffling noise behind him, interrupting his line of thought. Arthur turns around, sword unsheathed and at the ready, in case the bandits have come back.

It’s not the bandits, though. The noise came from Merlin.

Arthur watches, in horror, as Merlin’s body shifts again. His twitching fingers first, and then arms, and then his spine, slowly sitting up.

Arthur is rooted to the ground, struck frozen with terror, as he watches Merlin’s eyes flutter open.

“Merlin?” his voice is thready, barely above a disbelieving whisper.

Merlin moans. The sound makes Arthur’s hair stands on end.

 _He was dead,_ Arthur thinks maniacally. Perhaps he is losing his mind. It’s a hallucination—it has to be—but the gods help him, it looks so extremely real.

“You were gone,” Arthur says, hoarse. “How—? You were _dead._ I _watched_ you die. Merlin—?”

“Must’ve passed out,” Merlin gasps out.

“No,” denies Arthur, his voice growing stronger now. “No!” he repeats, louder this time. Merlin flinches, but Arthur carries on, desperate for an answer.“I put my hand over your heart, there was nothing there. You weren’t _breathing_ , I know you weren’t—” Arthur trails off, his breath hitching. 

Merlin looks at him with wide, horror-struck eyes.

“I must have,” Merlin chokes out, shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur, I couldn’t have been _dead,”_

 _I watched the life fade from your eyes,_ Arthur wants to shout, but he can’t get the words past his throat. He _felt_ the life leaving Merlin’s body. He _watched_ as the light leave his eyes, leaving them glassy and empty. He _felt_ the slackness taking over Merlin’s limbs, _felt_ the warmth leave his body. He held Merlin as he ceased to _be_ —he _knew_ the exact moment when he stopped holding Merlin and started holding his body. Arthur has seen enough deaths in his life, there’s no mistaking that limpness for anything else. And Arthur knew _,_ though he doesn’t know how—something in him _knew_ that Merlin was gone.

“I _held_ you,” Arthur tells him instead, his voice wretched. “Do you remember? I told you that we’ll get you back to Camelot and that Gaius will fix you up, and you told me to hold you,” his voice breaks on the last three words. He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “And I _did._ I felt you die.”

Merlin is shaking his head wildly, though his movements are weak and jerky. He looks just as disbelieving as Arthur does.

And then it occurs to Arthur that perhaps it’s not really Merlin. A wight, maybe. Some wraith possessing Merlin’s body, reanimating his limbs. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened, and isn’t that what happens when you don’t burn a body before dawn breaks?

Arthur raises his sword again in one fluid movement and takes a step forward, his sword pointed at the thing’s chest.

“You’re not Merlin,” Arthur bites out, feeling something inside him break at the words. “You can’t be. Merlin’s _dead_. What are you?”

Arthur has faced undead knights before, but none of them ever wore Merlin’s face. It’s the fact that it’s _Merlin,_ of all people, that makes the whole ordeal so unbearable.

_“What have you done to his body?”_

“It’s me, Arthur, I swear it,” the thing insists. It looks scared—bizarre, really, considering that between the two of them, it’s _Arthur_ who ought to be terrified. His dead friend just came back from the dead.

Arthur desperately wants to believe it. “I’m going mad,” he concludes, his voice high with hysteria. There’s no other explanation. Perhaps his father’s sickness runs in the male line. Seeing dead people was one of his ailments, after all. Perhaps losing Merlin, after losing his father, Morgana, and everything else that has been happening, has finally broken him.

“You’re not,” the wight implores. It looks so much like Merlin—well, of course it would, wouldn’t it, considering that it’s Merlin’s body it’s inhabiting. But the thing moves like Merlin, too, and speaks like Merlin. Arthur can’t stand to look at it.

He shakes his head. “Wishful thinking on my part, nothing else—“

“Why, Arthur, were you _wishing_ for me?” The wight attempts to tease, offering a tremulous grin. Much like Merlin used to do when he is attempting to diffuse the tension with his terrible attempt at humour.

“Stop it,” Arthur whispers. His eyes are burning, his heart clenching so tightly in his ribcage it is a struggle to breathe at all. He wants so much to believe that Merlin is here. He's torn between hope and desperation and can't tell which is which. “I command you to stop.”

“Tell me how I can prove it to you,”

“Tell me something,” replies Arthur. “Something only Merlin would know.”

It pauses, considering. “After you were bitten by the Questing Beast, I came into your room,” it finally says. “And I told you that I’m happy to be your servant until the day that I die.”

Arthur freezes. _Oh,_ he thinks, feeling faint all of a sudden. _It_ is _Merlin_. Because Arthur certainly hasn’t told anyone of that conversation.

The burst of hope in his heart is both dangerous and painful.

“You were dead, and now you’re not,” Arthur points out, trembling. “How?”

“I don’t know,”

 _Magic_ , Arthur thinks suddenly. _It has to be magic_.

“The Merlin I know doesn’t have any magic,” Arthur bites out, venomous. Furious, all of a sudden. “The Merlin I know would _never_ lie to me about this. The Merlin I know is _dead._ ”

Merlin flinches but stops just short of denying Arthur’s accusations outright. He shifts uncomfortably, refusing to meet Arthur’s eyes. Out of all the things, it’s _that_ little admission—it’s Merlin through and through. If Arthur wanted evidence, there it is.

Frustrated, tired, and not knowing how to even begin to process any of it, Arthur stalks off.

* * *

There is a stream nearby, and the walk is exactly that Arthur needs. It’s easier to think when he doesn’t have to look at Merlin, who was _dead_ and now somehow _isn’t_ , in the eye.

Arthur washes his face. The water is blessedly cool, and he can feel some of the cloud fuzzing his mind begin to dissipate with each subsequent rinse. He ought to be relieved—he knows he should be. He did, after all, beg the gods to be given a second chance.

He doesn’t know what to think. He knows that he should be thankful. Yet his thoughts are swirling in a furious maelstrom, and he can’t begin to extricate where one emotion starts and another begins. He is furious, of course he is. How can he not when somebody he thought he knew through and through is proven to be false? He cannot shake the sharp betrayal, either—that somebody so close to him would turn to magic, of all the wicked things. Especially after seeing what it has done to Morgana. Especially after his father.

In the years since he arrived in Camelot, Merlin had somehow wormed his way under Arthur’s skin. Camelot has no place for someone like him, yet Merlin had carved out a place for himself all the same, so much so that Arthur can’t imagine a life without him.

He doesn’t know what to do. Merlin died saving his life, and that is not something one generally repays with an execution. But Merlin has magic, which _is_ something one generally repays with an execution. Bringing Merlin back to Camelot alone would be nothing short of treason. It would be a betrayal of everything he was taught and everything that he knows. He would be betraying the memory of his father and mother both.

It would be so easy, leaving Merlin here. It would be so easy to pretend that none of this had happened and that Merlin had died after taking a shot meant for Arthur. He could tell everyone in Camelot that he had burned Merlin’s body, and none would be the wiser.

And yet, Arthur can’t quite reconcile Merlin with his ideas of a _sorcerer._ A sorcerer is evil, hell-bent on wreaking havoc upon the world. Thoroughly corrupted by their ability to manipulate forces of the earth. A sorcerer cannot be anything good.

Merlin, though?

Merlin, his bumbling servant who cried over a unicorn? Merlin, the idiot who ends up in the stocks so often that all the common children know him by his name? Who drank poison for him and took the shot meant for him? Who has seen Arthur at his very worst and chose to stand firmly by his side? Merlin could’ve killed Arthur so many times, gods only know how many opportunities he has had. Yet he’s never done anything to hurt Arthur.

 _All lies,_ his father would say. _All part of his deception. He’s only doing it to get close to you._

And gods, how well it had worked.

 _When I said one more chance, this isn’t what I meant,_ Arthur thinks pointedly to the gods.

“You know, any other man would’ve been grateful enough to be given a second chance,” a voice says, conversationally.

Arthur startles badly. He hasn’t heard anybody approaching. Even if he had a lot on his mind, his hearing is faultless. His first thought was _God?_ which would be, frankly, ridiculous. Although, to be fair, after everything that has happened that day, he really shouldn’t write anything off.

He steels his voice, unsheathing his sword. He turns around; he cannot see anybody. “Who goes there?”

“Down here,” the voice says, with amusement this time.

Arthur does not drop his sword. He has his very thorough training to thank for that, and last night most certainly does not count. Nothing in his training ever prepared him for this, though, because _there is a woman’s face on the water_.

 _A very pretty woman_ , Arthur thinks, with warm doe eyes and flowing dark hair. She looks vaguely familiar. But still— _on the surface of the water._ First his manservant came back from the dead, and now he is seeing faces on the water. Gods. And dawn only _just_ broke.

“I _am_ grateful _,_ ” Arthur tells her, defensive and not at all petulant. Oh, good, he’s talking to the watery woman now, entertaining this madness.

“Then why are you here?” Challenges the watery woman. “Why are you not by his side? With each passing moment, he strays further and further away from you.” Says the watery woman, matter-of-factly. “Even now, he is slipping through your grasp.”

“Surely he can’t be dying _again_ ,” Arthur protests. Madness. All of this is madness. “How many times can a man die?”

“You asked for one more chance,”

Arthur stiffens. “You heard that?”

“The world is more than you realise,” she replies. Which isn’t much of an answer, Arthur thinks. Before he can voice his opinion, though, she speaks again. “There are things in this world you do not yet understand.”

“If I leave him now, what would happen to him?” Arthur asks her instead, “will he live, and die, over and over again until something else puts him out of his misery?” The mere thought is enough to make Arthur shudder. It would be a fate worse than death.

“That is for the gods to decide,”

Arthur sighs. It’s nigh impossible to get a straight answer from the watery woman, but at least his next course of action seems to be clearer. After all, Arthur had promised _everything_.

“Tell me what I must do.”

The woman nods in approval. “You must give him water from the Lake of Avalon. The Goddess will heal him.”

“How do I get the water?”

“It is in the glass vial in your pocket,” she smiles patiently. Arthur reaches into his pockets and is surprised to find the vial there. He could’ve sworn that it wasn’t there before. “Oh, and when you give it to him,” the watery woman’s smile turns tender now, her voice suddenly soft, “please send him my love.”

Before Arthur can demand why a strange woman lying in a stream should be sending Merlin her love, she disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or: arthur points his sword at many different things without stabbing anything.
> 
> also, "watery woman" might or might not be a reference to the line:  
> "you can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just cause some watery tart threw a sword at you!"
> 
> "god?" might also be a very small zoolander reference.
> 
> hope you enjoy the update x


	3. Chapter 3

When he comes back, Arthur finds Merlin in the same position he left him in, slumped and propped up against the log. He looks nothing at all like the powerful sorcerer he must be, if the way he just overcame death was any indication. He looks like Arthur’s dying friend.

Arthur is not sure what he was expecting—that Merlin would flee, perhaps, and spare him from having to make a decision then and there. Of course, this is Merlin he’s talking about—things were never going to be so easy.

Merlin’s eyes are closed, but Arthur doesn’t think he is asleep anymore. He is on his knees next to Merlin before he could stop himself. “Merlin,” Arthur tries, slapping Merlin’s cheek gently. Despite knowing what Merlin is capable of, there is worry gnawing at Arthur’s chest. Merlin is never supposed to be so still, so drained of life. “Hey, wake up.”

Merlin doesn’t respond, head lolling to the side. It strikes him then, how vulnerable Merlin was when Arthur left him. Anything could’ve attacked him and finished the job—bandits and wolves immediately spring into mind—and he would be utterly defenceless. The realisation sends hot coursing through Arthur, blistering like acid. No matter what he is feeling, Merlin doesn’t deserve this.

Merlin looks significantly worse for wear now, looking very much like death warmed over. To be fair, Arthur supposes that that’s precisely what Merlin is. If he was pale when Arthur left, he is white as a sheet now. There’s an unhealthy grey pallor to his clammy skin, his lips almost blue. His breathing is laboured, rattling in his chest, and it sounds very loud in the otherwise quiet forest.

Arthur mutters a curse and lifts Merlin’s cut-up shirt with the intention to check on the wound. He hadn’t bothered to change it last night, considering that Merlin was _dead_ , and between Merlin returning to life and all the other events of the day, changing the dressing simply wasn’t on his list of priorities. What he sees causes his heart to lurch—it feels as though time itself has stopped.

Merlin’s body is crisscrossed with scars. There’s a circular burn mark over his heart, the skin puckered and glistening. Multiple scars from what looked like stab wounds, here and there, some looking quite old and almost white, others looking more recent.

There is something to be said about how white-hot panic can blind a man, but _how on earth did Arthur miss this?_

Merlin makes a distressed whimper, as if responding to Arthur’s disquiet. His brows furrow deeply, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Still stunned, Arthur lets go of Merlin’s shirt, which was bunched tightly in his fist without him realising. He watches, as if in slow motion, as the fabric falls back down, once again hiding Merlin’s scars. It’s nothing short of mind-boggling that the single sheet of fabric—the single _tattered_ sheet of fabric, no less—was all that hid Merlin from Arthur.

Arthur sits back, exhaling shakily, feeling as though his whole world has been upended. He truly had never known Merlin at all, had he. Merlin had a whole world outside of Arthur—a whole other life that Arthur knows nothing of. One where he routinely gets into danger. One involving a watery woman.

 _Perhaps he has died before,_ Arthur thinks to himself, horrified _._ And Arthur hadn’t known—w _ouldn’t_ have known. All those times that Merlin had gone missing, and Arthur never bothered to try and find him. What on earth had Merlin been doing? Where was Arthur during all of this?

Did Merlin know that Arthur wasn’t going to look for him?

His stomach feels sick. How many times over would Merlin have died, then, if not for his magic? And if Merlin needed the water now to heal himself—and Arthur to administer it—how did he recover before?

There’s a mental image, suddenly, coming unbidden to the forefront of Arthur’s mind—of Merlin stitching himself back together, or cauterising his own wounds—and suppresses a shudder. “Right then,” he mutters to himself. He’s dilly-dallied long enough that Merlin’s probably on death’s door again.

With grim determination, Arthur gets to work. He lifts Merlin’s shirt again and carefully unwraps the makeshift dressing. He has to force himself not to react when he sees that somehow, the wound has worsened further, impossibly festering around the arrowhead. _How can it even get any worse?_ Arthur wonders wildly. _Merlin was_ dead _. How can the wound get any worse still?_

His heart sinks when he realises that he would have to pull the arrowhead out of Merlin’s chest and cauterise the wound before even giving Merlin the water, if Merlin was to recover at all. So he places the blade of his sword over the open fire, wrapping his leather gloves around the handle and tying it off with a spare strip of cloth.

A million questions run through his head as he waits for the metal to glow red hot.

He remembers the Dorocha. He remembers the sick, helpless terror when he reached out to stop Merlin from sacrificing himself. He remembers not being quick enough, he remembers grabbing empty air, thinking no, no, _NO_ —and then seeing Merlin’s body flung against the wall with a sickening crack, lifeless as a rag doll. His eyes were still open when Arthur turned him over. He remembers his whole life changing in that split second. 

_He must’ve died then, too,_ Arthur realises, numb. Merlin had died in front of his eyes, and Arthur was too oblivious not to miss what it was, too blinded by relief to question it at all.

When Arthur looks up, roused from his reverie, the blade is ready. He stands, his stomach full of dread at what he is about to do, and carefully lifts the sword out of the fire. His steps feel heavy when Arthur walks over to Merlin’s side. Gingerly, but with sure fingers, he unties the neckerchief from around Merlin’s neck before carefully opening Merlin’s jaw, stuffing the neckerchief in. He knows of too many men who have bitten off some parts of their tongue while having this done to them, and Arthur isn’t going to take the risk.

Before he could change his mind, Arthur straddles Merlin, pinning his arms against his sides. He rips open Merlin’s shirt and pulls the arrowhead out in one fluid motion.

Merlin screams, his body jerking harshly against Arthur’s thighs. Hot tears prick at Arthur’s eyes as he exerts himself down, keeping Merlin still as he tries to buck Arthur off. With considerable effort, he forces his hands to still as he pinches the skin around Merlin’s wound closed with one hand and presses the heated metal upon Merlin’s skin with the other.

“I’m sorry!” Arthur cries as Merlin screams and screams, thrashing violently under Arthur’s thighs. His voice is muffled by the neckerchief stuffed in his mouth but the sound is no less awful, wrenching hard at Arthur’s heart, striking him where it hurts the deepest. The acrid smell of burning flesh makes his stomach turn, and the fact that it’s _Merlin—_

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says again as Merlin’s frantic eyes meet his, wide with agony and glazed with pain, tears streaming down from the corners of his eyes and into his dark hair, but Arthur can’t let up before he finishes, or it would all be for nothing. It’s not long before Merlin’s eyes roll into the back of his head and his body becomes lax, mercifully unconscious.

Arthur’s own cheeks are wet with tears by the time he finishes. “Shut up,” Arthur hisses, furiously wiping at his eyes even though Merlin isn’t in any state to notice.

Arthur is only halfway done. He reaches into his pocket for the vial and uncorks it before opening Merlin’s mouth. He tips the vial ever-so-gently against Merlin’s lips, allowing a drop of two to fall at a time as to not cause Merlin to choke. Every so often, he would massage Merlin’s neck in fluid strokes, encouraging him to swallow the water.

And then he waits.

* * *

Hours seem to pass without anything happening.

“You should be healing,” says Arthur accusingly, “why aren’t you healing?”

“There’s just no pleasing you, is there,” Merlin rasps out, “I could be dead instead.”

Arthur did _not_ jump, but his lips quirk up in an involuntary smile. When he turns to look, Merlin is still slumped against the log, his eyes still closed, but where his skin was deathly white before, there’s the tiniest bit of colour back in his cheeks.

He has so very many questions, but at that moment, the only thing he can say is Merlin’s name.

“You left,” Merlin murmurs, brows knitting together, “I remember.”

The anger returns.

“You lied to me,” Arthur shoots back defensively, “you’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”

Merlin opens his eyes. He blinks slowly, clearly still disorientated. “Arthur—“

“How many times?” Arthur interrupts him, “I’ve seen your scars. How many times, Merlin?”

“How many times what?”

“How many times have you died and came back to life?”

“I don’t know,” admits Merlin. “I’ve always thought I was just lucky. I never thought I actually—“

“Died,” Arthur supplies harshly when Merlin trails off, unable to finish.

Merlin nods, avoiding Arthur’s eyes.

"Nobody was ever there to see it,” he continues. “Nobody was there to tell me what happened.”

 _You weren’t there,_ Arthur hears, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. _I’ve always been alone._

Arthur wanted to stay furious, but how can he, after that admission? 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Arthur replies, some of the hurt bleeding into his voice. Merlin doesn’t respond, and Arthur has to swallow painfully against the tightness in his throat when he forces himself to continue, “did you think that I would’ve let you burn?”

Did Merlin think Arthur valued him so little?

“You left,” Merlin points out. It's not a direct answer to Arthur's question, but it’s an answer all the same. “I didn’t think that you would come back.”

“I—“ Arthur trails off.

“I didn’t want you to think any differently of me,” Merlin confesses when Arthur fails to continue. “I didn’t want you to send me away.”

It’s difficult not to concede the point when Arthur reacted so badly upon being presented with the truth. He had only gone and proved Merlin right.

“Your sword ought to do it,” says Merlin, before Arthur can get a word in.

“Excuse me?”

“In case you were wondering. If you’re going to execute me, your sword ought to do it.” He smiles, but his smile is both joyless and brittle. False. It chills Arthur to the bone. “It ought to stick this time.”

Where had this come from? "I had no idea you were so keen to die again," Arthur grits out. 

"You cannot know how much I have sacrificed for you," Merlin continues, and Arthur can hear the frustration in his voice. His eyes are bright, glimmering with tears. He sounds drained, hollow. "I've lost everything. If after all that, you still wanted me dead, then what's the point?"

"Merlin—" He scrambles for a way to make this better, now furious at nobody but himself for ever letting Merlin think that Arthur wanted him dead. For letting his anger get the best of him, yet again, when it’s so obvious that Merlin’s loyalty has only ever been to him. “Don’t be daft, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs instead, feigning lightness where there is none, “why would I go through all that trouble to bring you back if I wanted you dead?”

Merlin pauses, considering his reply. “You wanted answers,” he says. As if that's all the reason why Arthur would want him alive. How on earth would Arthur fix this? Merlin looks as though he believes it from the bottom of his heart, and it kills Arthur just that little bit more. 

“I do,” Arthur confirms. It’s difficult, holding Merlin’s gaze. He doesn’t know how to convince Merlin that Arthur wanted him by his side. He wants so desperately to fix this but he doesn’t know how. “And trust me, you’ll be answering a lot of questions once you're healed and well again."

Despite his words, he still fails to wipe that despair off of Merlin's face. He tries again. 

"I needed time to think. It was a lot to take in. But I was always going to come back."

Merlin shoots him a dubious look. 

“Well, eventually, anyway,” he concedes with a roll of his eyes, feigning mirth when all he wanted to do was break. He swallows, then takes a deep breath— "I'm sorry."

Merlin looks shocked right out of his despair. 

And then, faster than Merlin can expect him, he rushes forward to wrap his arms around Merlin, mindful of his wound. Merlin stiffens. “I thought I lost you," he whispers fervently into Merlin's ear. "I thought I'd never see you again. Gods, how could I want you dead when I already know what it would feel like?"

Merlin shudders.

“I don’t know what I can do to make you believe me,” Arthur confesses. It’s so much easier to speak the words when he doesn’t have to meet Merlin's eyes. “If I could take it all back, all that I said in the clearing—" Why couldn't he just be happy and relieved that Merlin was alive? Why did he even storm off? "You must understand what you mean to me. I can't—” his breath hitches, but he forces himself to continue. "I can't bear to lose you again."

“I’m sorry too,” he hears Merlin say, shakily, “for what it’s worth, I never wanted to lie to you.”

Arthur pulls back at that, regarding Merlin seriously. “I know.” 

Merlin still doesn't look fully convinced, so Arthur does the one thing left that he can do. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Merlin squarely on his lips before his courage can leave him.

When he pulls back to look at Merlin, Merlin looks thoroughly dumbfounded. He raises a finger to touch his lips in stunned disbelief. “Close your mouth, you look like an idiot,” Arthur snaps without much heat, fighting down a furious blush because he is _not_ some chaste maiden, “do you understand, Merlin?”

Merlin is looking at Arthur like he’s never seen Arthur before. Then he smiles, bright as the summer sun.

“Good,” Arthur nods brusquely, something warm and wonderful blossoming in his chest, “now let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's that done! thank you for reading the story, hope you enjoyed it :-)
> 
> picked up a couple more typos and missing words, so that should be fixed now. also (daft question) but for the life of me I can't seem to mark this as complete.... oh well x


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